


Come Clean

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Euron returns to Pyke, his brother remembers everything.</p>
<p>Written for the eighth round of got_exchange on LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Clean

It rained on the day that his brother came back. Aeron stood on the beach, the tide slowly coming in around his ankles, watching as the waves returned, as they always did, to the shores of Pyke. He had gone to the waters to pray for his dead brother and king, knowing that his offerings would be heard by Balon, who surely dwelt now in the halls of their god’s honored dead. He had also thought on the empty chair and lonely crown, objects without a master, although he had put aside his more troubling thoughts, regarding issues like succession and titles to be a matter more fit for worldly men. And Aeron’s business was not in kingmaking and paying court, but rather in service to his true lord and master beneath the waves. 

A ship, in the distance, obscured by the mist, caught his attention, and he cupped a hand to his brow in an attempt to keep the sharp spray from stinging his eyes. Had he been closer, he would have trembled to see. Its decks were red as the blood that would have stained them had it not been for the paint that coated them, obscuring their dark secret to any who looked upon them. It cut through the waves like a knife, sails flapping in the wind, salt stains marring the single red eye flanked by crows that proclaimed their captain to any who looked upon it. There were no cries from the crew, who struggled to right the craft in the turbulence of the brewing storm. A gang of mutes collected from ports east manned the deck while their master kept watch at the prow, his gloved fingers absent-mindedly stroking the blade of the dagger that he wore at his waist. It had granted so many of them the precious gift of silence, the honor of living in thrall to one who had crossed behind the shadow of Asshai and lived to tell the tale, who had brought frantic prayers to lips in every port, who had gazed upon it all with a dazzling blue eye, and mocked it all with cruel, dead blue lips. 

Aeron stood, motionless, watching as the longship neared, coming out of the fog like a great sea beast. The tattered edges of his robes snapped against his legs, stinging the bare skin, and his thin body trembled with the cold, but he paid the pain no mind. Such trivial things no longer troubled him as they once did, and he shrugged such minor discomforts off as the price paid for living a godly life. He did not at first recognize the boat, thinking by its garish design to be some Lyseni cog, stripped down by Ironborn and claimed as their own. Despite the gathering dusk, the scarlet tinge of the wood became more and more visible as it neared the docks, although he was puzzled by the lack of shouting from the decks. Dark-skinned men, wraith-like in the gloom, clung to the rigging, drawing the sails. Some leapt to the pier, fastening strong ropes to hold the craft in place. A hooded figure, face concealed by folds of rich fabric, stood at the ship’s wheel, seeming to direct the action on deck. When anchor dropped, the boat strained against its moorings, knocking free a length of rope. As it swung on its pulley, Aeron could hear the screech of rusted metal joints, and the sound built in his ears with a frightening intensity until at last, the mechanism dropped to the deck with a clatter. 

It was then that his gaze met his brother’s smiling eye, and long-ago nights that he had thought to purge from his mind returned. Aeron had tried, so very hard, to fill those empty spaces with the oaths that he had sworn to his Maker, but when dead blue lips, livid in pallid flesh, quirked into a smile, he remembered.

***

He remembered Euron’s hands, how cold they were, like ice, but ice that burned, when his brother came to him at night, creeping through the darkened corridors of Pyke. He was silent then, silent as a dirty secret, silent as death. The only noise was that of the wind battering against the towers of the castle, screaming as it forced its way through the chinks in the stones, and the door, hinge rusty from years of use, from an eternity of the salt that covered everything on their island home. Euron had come, many times, without fear, without shame, claiming Aeron’s flesh and blood for his pleasure.

He had slipped under the covers, his body pressing against Aeron’s in a gesture of intimacy that the boy would not have shrugged off had it come from a willing wench or thrall, breath hot against his ear, the hiss of his barely-concealed laughter making Aeron shiver. His amusement had not betrayed his presence, though, and he had whispered things to the boy, dreams and notions that chilled him. One day Euron would wield a power greater than that of driftwood and rock, one day he would possess dark knowledge that would make even hard-faced Quellon tremble, one day he would plummet like a sea bird, spread his wings at the last moment, and fly. He would cheat death, he would become death, he would mock death with his handsome smiles and cold blue eyes. Aeron knew that it was mostly talk, that it was the drink that twisted his brother’s tongue. Even then the cursed Shade of the Evening colored his mouth an unearthly blue, just as it stained his thoughts. 

He blamed the drink sometimes, for the intimacies that Euron forced upon him, with the pleasures that he took in the dark. A clever hand might sneak between his legs, teasing him until, despite his own fear and shame, he grew hard and whimpered when he was denied the outcome of his reluctant pleasure. Or a knife, the edge gleaming softly in the shadows, would draw along his throat, the blade honed razor-sharp, eager to cut his fragile flesh and spill his blood. It was easier to think that his own kin would not really use him in such an ill way, to believe that his thoughts were addled and he knew not what he did. 

But Aeron knew better, really. 

Sometimes Euron would whisper endearments to him. _You shall be my rockwife_ , he murmured, a chuckle in his voice, _and when I sail out into the world, I shall take my pleasure where I find it. But I shall come home, worry not. I shall always come home._ He would talk of abominations, of things that made Aeron, who then had merely gone through the motions of honoring their god, tremble to know that he was heard, that they were heard and seen. _One day they will die, and their Old Ways with them_ , he said, brushing his mouth against his brother’s in a parody of a kiss. _And who will you bend the knee to then?_ But the worst times were when he spoke of Urrigon, surely nothing now but bones, gone to rest in the watery halls beneath the deep. _A pity_ , Euron sighed, _to die so young and so beautiful. But perhaps it is a blessing for him. He will never grow old or weak as we shall. And he will never truly know pain. Yes, he is fortunate._ And Aeron believed it. Better he than Urri. Urri had been a child. Urri had been his friend. 

But Euron had flown in the end. Euron had been banished, and Balon’s word was law, a law that would ensure that he was safe. His god, who had made himself known to Aeron, would protect him. The sea would protect him. Time and distance would stand guard. Now he roamed their land, in service to one who had blessed him with water and salt, and did not linger long in the soft comforts of Pyke, the sand and stone a more fitting bed than one of warm blankets and soft down pillows. It was clean there, clean and quiet, the only sounds the wind over the water, the monotonous lapping of the waves against the shore, and the cries of birds as they circled and darted. 

He had torn the old door from its place before he’d thrown off his worldly shackles, had hacked it to pieces with a dull axe, had bent and broken the hinge with his own trembling hands. The cords had stood out on his neck with the effort, and his muscles had ached for days, but at the time he felt nothing more than relief and a sense of righteousness. And even though the layers of rust had stained his hands, almost like old blood, he had purged them in the sea and had come clean.

***

When the news of Euron’s crowning reached his ears, they were too full of the sound of his own fear to do him any good. His followers, the good faithful, could only stand and watch in sorrow as he pressed crabbed hands to the sides of his head, trying in vain to blot out the sounds of a ancient hinge, squeaking in the night, and the soft intimate chuckle that filled his ear, hot breath like that of a lover’s on his cheek. It had been bare as a maid’s once, in those days. And the sound never left him after that. He knew that it would never leave him, not until he breathed his last and came into his reward for a half-lifetime of sacrifice and obedience, and even then, he feared that it would still echo in the deep, still waters. 

He looked at the sea, shivering despite the sun that had broken through the clouds. Offering muttered prayers he bowed his head, fighting the fleshly distraction of his own fear, trying to break through it and trying to remember. Trying to think. It wasn’t until the sand grew cold beneath his bare feet that he realized what he had to do, the word _Kingsmoot_ on his lips, and he sunk to his knees, spare muscles tensing with the effort, bowing forward, pressing his lips to the beach, to the water’s edge where the waves lapped. They too caressed his face, but it was not the unwelcome touch of a lover. It was the touch of divinity, and he whispered a prayer of thanksgiving to the Drowned God, thinking on how he will preserve them all from Euron’s godless ways, from the wreck and the ruin that he has surely brought with him.


End file.
